


shape of words

by hecleretical



Category: Pyre (Video Game)
Genre: Friendship, Gen, cultural exchange?? i guess in that imps have culture, gol golathanian: deeply repressed human being (self dx'd), humans understanding non-humans, some very slight gol/soliam subtext
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-02-14
Updated: 2020-02-14
Packaged: 2021-02-28 03:13:30
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,031
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/22637332
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/hecleretical/pseuds/hecleretical
Summary: His-- Murr. Would know, maybe. Having been down here longer he finds it easier to understand the creature-- Ha'ub, he tells Gol quietly. It has a name to him, and they do seem to have a certain understanding. Not that Gol is minded to say anything to him that doesn't need to be said. There's a churning black sea of things inside of him too ugly to put to words.Instead, he talks to it. The imp or the demon, good conversation choices.or, gol and ha'ub become friends and make someone feel like a third wheel.
Relationships: Ha'ub the Swallow & Gol Golathanian
Comments: 2
Kudos: 12
Collections: Chocolate Box - Round 5





	shape of words

**Author's Note:**

  * For [azurefishnets](https://archiveofourown.org/users/azurefishnets/gifts).



The little creature finds it hard to be understood. He does know a few words, from what the-- from what Murr must have said to him. But he of course does not understand nuance or figure of speech, and finds it hard to convey anything but the most basic concepts himself. Eat. Food. Danger. No. That's about the sense Gol finds in those cries at first.

He can speak a little in a handful of languages himself, soldier that he is; mostly curses, but he can hold a conversation in Highwing. Whatever tongue the imp speaks is unlike any of them. But it is a language. He's more and more sure of that. There's a rhythm and measure to it that senseless noises don't have. Is it almost the pitch and tone that matter more than what noises it makes, or is he imagining things?

His-- Murr. Would know, maybe. Having been down here longer he finds it easier to understand the creature-- Ha'ub, he tells Gol quietly. It has a name to him, and they do seem to have a certain understanding. Not that Gol is minded to say anything to him that doesn't need to be said. There's a churning black sea of things inside of him too ugly to put to words.

Instead, he talks to it. The imp or the demon, good conversation choices.

They travel through sand dunes and shallow ravines, slot canyons so thin the light comes down in thin lines along the ground beneath them. Following the river, but keeping it out of sight. He knows the Sisters of the Arch will be following it, if they're alive, and through instinct the little creature seems to want to keep away from it too, except for when it needs water. Has it ever been hunted? Small as it-- as he?-- is, there might be any number of predators lurking here, though it's fierce enough to give any of them a fright. It had very nearly torn the face off one of the Sisters.

But there's cleverness in those eyes too, and an odd sense of loyalty. Wary at first, it'd warmed up to him quickly. The creature-- Ha'ub-- begins to sleep on his shoulder, to warn him in shrill squeaks before he put his foot down on unstable ground. He comforts it when he builds fires.

And they begin to speak. It’s painstaking at first, just pointing to objects and trying to guess what the other means-- more than once he thinks he knows a word for sure only to realize Ha’ub had been saying something completely different. They notice different things; Gol says _bird_ when Ha’ub would point out _flying_. It turns into almost a game. Tell me what this means. Point at something different until I know everything that sound goes with. While they walk, or rest, or keep watch, they’re speaking and comparing and learning. It’s something to keep his mind off all the _grimness_ around him and Gol finds he enjoys it.

He doesn’t remember when he begins trying to learn the sounds as well as meanings. At first his new friend finds it endlessly amusing-- he’s terrible at imitating skriis and hyooms-- but he soon decides to take an interest in it, and he’s such a serious teacher that for the first time since twelve or so Gol feels like a schoolboy.

Murr doesn’t need lessons; he and Ha’ub have almost an instinctual sense of each other. It puts a bitter uncomfortable knot in his stomach he tries to ignore.

They walk through steep gulches cut out by some course of the river, slow dripping water that trickles down the rock’s face the only sign of a spring he would never have found without Ha’ub to guide. You are a genius, he says, delighted, and the imp puffs up twice his size and preens.

There are fish, too, darting and silver. Ha’ub is obsessed and tries to teach Gol to catch them with his bare hands. It’s damn hard. They share the words for _fish_ , _spring_ , _moss_ , and _water_ , and _splashing_ , which is what their lesson turns into. He hasn’t realized how fucking dusty he’s been, not until his face and hair and hands and the front of his shirt are all wet and he feels like he can finally breathe. Ha’ub clearly feels the same. Even Murr washes his face and hands.

He scrounges up enough scrub for a fire. Not even cooking the fish can spoil Ha’ub’s good mood for long, sulk as he might. It does add to their provisions psychologically more than substantially. But to be a little clean, and have a fresh hot dinner, makes him feel better than any medal or victory ever did. We are taking a _bath_ next time we go to the river, he promises. I want to feel human again.

Later still, as they play their language game over the embers of the fire, he manages a long chirruping syllable that’s been giving him the slip for a week. Ha’ub is so delighted he jumps the full height of his body into the air and sends Gol into stitch-in-his-side convulsive laughter.

“Hrii-hii-hyoo,” he protests, puffing up indignantly.

“Sorry,” Gol chokes, “you’re just-- so fucking ridiculous--” and Ha’ub headbuts him in the arm.

When he’s catching his breath he sees Murr and the laughter drains out of him. He’s staring, big yellow eyes fixed on Gol. Their eyes meet for a long moment before Murr glances away.

“Nyoo-oom,” Ha’ub says worriedly, when Gol doesn’t. He rubs his head against his hand, chittering. “Skiii-hihiii.”

“It’s nothing,” he says absently, looking back toward the dying fire. How to voice what comes up when their eyes meet? Would Ha’ub even understand if he knew? This is a creature who knows nothing of empires or betrayal or loyalty. He’s kept everything in so long sometimes he thinks he’ll spend his whole life like this.

He clearly doesn’t believe that. “Hyooooo,” he insists, and grabs Gol’s hand gently between his teeth to tug at it. It had clenched into a fist and he hadn’t realized.

“Nothing,” he says again, and asks about what another word means.


End file.
